<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Heat by speakertone</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22695751">Heat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakertone/pseuds/speakertone'>speakertone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Macbeth - Shakespeare, ShakespeaRe-Told</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Food Fight, M/M, Violence, i mean it's a ghost looking at his own corpse, yeah have fun deciphering this one from the tags HAHAHAHAHA, yeah it's one of those!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 10:48:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,150</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22695751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakertone/pseuds/speakertone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"The silhouette taunts him, sways in his line of sight as he fights to stay awake, as he croaks out his son’s name feebly as a last ditch effort to let someone know he’s been shot.</p>
<p>For one, fleeting moment, that blurry figure, in the fevered thoughts of a dying man, looks like Joe Macbeth."<br/>-<br/>Billy Banquo remembers July and wishes he could forget.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Banquo (Macbeth)/Macbeth, Joe Macbeth/Billy Banquo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay, so for context, this is based on a movie adaptation of Macbeth from 2005: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsRrRvt2ZvA<br/>It's a good, fun watch and James Mcavoy is in it, but if you want to read this as a reincarnation AU sort of fic, that works fine too!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Heat trickles down his spine like liquid and burns him through to his lungs. Every bone in his body stings, every muscle aches, blood runs through his every vein like fire.</p>
<p>Is this what it’s really like? His mind is racing, grappling for something to anchor himself to- the bike, the grass, the dirt, anything, he’ll take anything. He finds that he doesn’t even have the time to scream.</p>
<p>He distantly feels himself cough and it hurts like nothing’s ever hurt before, but he’s so disconnected from himself that he could be anybody, anybody, he thinks, struggling to keep his eyes open.</p>
<p>Someone looks over him, but Billy can barely make out his face.</p>
<p>The silhouette taunts him, sways in his line of sight as he fights to stay awake, as he croaks out his son’s name feebly as a last ditch effort to let someone know he’s been... well, he’s not too sure, shock and pain and disconnect considered, but he thinks it’s safe to say he’s been shot.</p>
<p>For one, fleeting moment, that blurry figure, in the fevered thoughts of a dying man, looks like Joe Macbeth.</p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>It was an afternoon in July- he remembers it so vividly- and the light was filtering in through the sliding glass doors keeping the living room separate from the balcony, seeping into the kitchen where Billy Banquo stands, watching his stand-mixer whip up some half-assed cake batter with tired eyes.</p>
<p>He didn’t mind days off at all, no. If he was being honest, he loved to take breaks and laze around on the couch waiting for Lydia to come home from her dayjob, Freddy in her arms, fresh out of daycare with a lolly hanging from his mouth, but when they were away visiting family, he had to wonder if he should’ve gone with them after all. </p>
<p>(“No, Lyds, I have work... you understand, yeah? God forbid I leave Joe in the kitchen all by himself.”)</p>
<p>He stretches, drags himself away from the stand mixer, and starts whipping together some basic frosting, something that won’t take too much time, when the doorbell rings.</p>
<p>His back aches and cracks as he walks over to open the door, rubbing at his face blearily. He’s been exhausted for weeks, he thinks, remembering Joe saying with a sly grin, “a chef never sleeps”. Grade-A bullshit as always. He allows himself a half-smile As he stands there, combing a hand through his hair to make himself look at least semi-presentable (or as presentable as he can look, in his rumpled t-shirt and shorts- god, he must look like he’s been asleep for years...), he thinks that Joe might have been right- though he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it, even to himself.</p>
<p>Of course, speak of the devil, Joe Macbeth stands at the door, scratching at the speckle of stubble on his jaw. He looks just about as disgruntled as Billy feels, but he’s in uniform at least, save for the leather pants. Those come directly from his wardrobe. He chooses not to question the clothing choices. It’s been a god-awful week for them all.</p>
<p>“It’s you!” Billy says, a smile stretching itself lazily across his face. He leans on the doorframe, kicks a leg back, crosses his arms. “What brings you over?”</p>
<p>“You like baking when you’re stressed,” Joe says back, tapping at his temple as though he’s discovered a well-kept secret. His voice is smooth and teasing, Billy thinks, so he must want something. (“Or,” he thinks again, and he tapers his hopes, “he’s just happy to see me.”) “‘S been one hell of a week and I don’t reckon your brownies are planning on eating themselves.”</p>
<p>“It’s a cake,” Billy says and corrects him, straightening and walking him into the kitchen. He leans across the counter to turn off the stand-mixer, then turns back around to look Joe in the eyes.</p>
<p>They’re lovely eyes, really, he thinks, as the golden hours of the afternoon hit his face. They’ve melted into some kind of warm gray that does nothing to soothe the lump that’s already forming in Billy’s throat. He’ll choke it down eventually, he always has, but at the moment, there’s magic in the air, and Billy truly does want to enjoy it before he forces it away. The light bounces off of the metal bowls littering the counter and scatters across the room.</p>
<p>“You’ll help me decorate it won’t you?,” is what he says, thinking that it’s a good idea, a fun exercise for the two of them, but an hour or so later, when Joe smears red frosting all over his face and apron, he thinks he shouldn’t have said it at all.</p>
<p>“Oi, you cut that out!” Billy laughs, and pushes him away, getting chocolate onto his nose and a little bit of his cheek, only adding fuel to the fire. “Are you five?”</p>
<p>“Don’t touch the chef!” Joe shouts back, leaning over and splattering the contents of the piping bag in his hand onto Billy’s stomach. He covers the entire midsection of his apron in a deep red and beams, proud of himself, before he notices Billy dropping a hunk of frosting down his open shirt and lets out a shout. </p>
<p>“I was only trying to teach you... how to frost a cake, you twat…!” Billy shouts over the laughter, grabbing the spatula to swat Joe’s hand away from the chocolate frosting lying on the table. “You don’t… you don’t have to get... violent!”</p>
<p>“You start a war, you best prepare to end it!” Is the reply, full of the kind of joy that can only come with a food fight over a collapsing cake, the kind of joy that’s found in the simple wonder of looking into the warm eyes of someone so loved and so full of love, and taking a handful of red frosting to shove into that someone’s mouth.</p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>When Billy shoots awake and sees his own body lying beneath him, sees the blood that drenches the shirt he’s wearing, he doesn’t think about the bullet that ripped through his skin. He doesn’t think about the vacancy in his own eyes or his own mouth hanging loosely agape. He doesn’t think about gray skin and gray water.</p>
<p>“You start a war, you best prepare to end it,” he thinks, and the red frosting in his memory mingles with the crimson red blood that seeps down under his grimy, gritty fingernails. The last golden rays of a sunny day mix together with the sun rising over the hill and swim in his vision. The fading footsteps of a gunman ring in his ears beside the laughter of two men in love. </p>
<p>When he pulls his trembling hands away from his side and finds blood there, he thinks of that afternoon in July, and wonders if that meant anything to Joe at all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you read this, thank you because genuinely this movie might be one of the most niche interests possibly ever HAHAHAHAH</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>